His Death And My Life
by CherokeeWind
Summary: John falls instead of Sherlock. Basically role reversal, but my own stuff is mixed in there too. Keep in mind, I OWN NOTHING. Wish I did.
1. Chapter 1

John stepped up to the ledge. _Don't look down, don't look down,_ he reminded himself, his military training taking over, making sure he had complete control over every muscle, every bone.

A cab pulled up below. John broke his rule and looked down to see who it was.

 _Sherlock._

The ex-army doctor grimaced at having to face his best friend. Then he realized, _Wait, I'll just call him instead._ His phone was in his hand then up against his ear before he had time for another thought.

 **Ring ring.**

 **Ring ring.**

 **Ring ring.**

 **Ring ring.**

 **Ring ri-**

"Yes, John what is it?" The detective's voice had a slightly bored tone to it. John sighed as he watched the tall figure begin to stride into St. Bart's.

"No Sherlock, stay where you are. I need you to stay exactly where you are."

"John?" Sherlock's voice came out sounding worried. John pinched his nose. _I'm doing this for you. Don't worry about me, worry about yourself. If I don't do this just right, you'll die, Sherlock! And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade will die too!_

"John, where are you?" The slightly younger man frowned and started walking towards the hospital again, only to be stopped by his best friend's voice.

"No, Sherlock, stay there. Look up." The former captain had a slight hint of army creeping into his words, making Sherlock shiver with pleasure. John had no idea what that did to him. John had no idea what feelings swirled beneath his cold exterior. When Sherlock did finally look up, he gasped and put his hand of his mouth in horror.

"JOHN, stay there, I'm coming up. Don't move a muscle." He hung up, running as fast as he could into the hospital and up the stairs.

John was about to shout, "NO!" but Sherlock had hung up on him before he could get it out. Now there was only one thing left to do. He shuffled closer to the ledge, fear starting to build in him. _Captain John Watson, the only thing you need to fear is fear itself, right? There is no need to feel afraid. Yes, you still might die, but death would've come anyways. At least this is for a worthy cause._

Taking a deep breath, John closed his eyes and jumped.

At the same moment, Sherlock burst out of the roof door.

He fell to his knees, screaming unintelligible words to the winds, uncaring for anyone who might hear him. John, _his John,_ had left him. Voluntarily. Not letting him fix whatever it was that was the problem.

 _Why John, why would you do that? Why, why, why, WHY?!_

Sherlock stumbled back down the stairs and out to the sidewalk where his best friend lay, broken and bleeding. He knew John was dead already, _fall of 169 feet, turned midfall, landed on upper back and smashed in the skull._ He grabbed the doctor's hand and checked for a pulse anyway. There wasn't one. His hand tightened over the limp wrist and he screamed.

They found him three hours later, curled in a fetal position in a back alleyway, shivering and rocking. His voice was gone from shouting, swearing, screaming at anyone who got anywhere close to him. DI Lestrade sighed and motioned his team to step back, away from the shaking genius. He himself went closer, sitting down next to Sherlock, leaning his head back against the wall.

They sat like that for several minutes, no one speaking or moving except for Sherlock's incessant rocking. Suddenly, however, the detective spun around and curled in Lestrade's side, surprising the older man. After a second, his arms curled around the long body, pulling him closer, and the silver head rested on the dark one.

Still no words were spoken. Only tears fell.


	2. Chapter 2

Sherlock sat, staring at the chair across from his. No, he'd never been able to get rid of it. He'd tried once, a year after John's death. Mrs. Hudson had found him in the bathroom with a knife and a syringe of drugs and called Lestrade immediately. The chair had reappeared as if it had never moved.

John was hovering at his shoulder. He always was. Since the night Sherlock tried to remove his chair and nearly killed himself, a year ago. It made it easier. The hallucination spoke like John, moved like John, did everything like John. When food and tea appeared, it was John who'd made them, in Sherlock's mind. His brain had created a perfect replica. It even felt like John when he touched him.

When Sherlock had nightmares, ghost-John was there to comfort him. They slept together, holding hands or holding each other to keep the monsters away. Sometimes ghost-John had nightmares too, just like real-John had had. Only these nightmares didn't seem like war PTSD. They seemed more like torture nightmares. And every night those nightmares came, ghost-John had cried out for Sherlock, tears and pain in every breath.

When that happened, Sherlock would take ghost-John in his arms and hug him close, reassuring him that he was okay.

The arrangement seemed to be permanent.

Sherlock hadn't taken a case in the two years real-John had been gone. Lestrade merely stopped in every once in a while, always when ghost-John was out of the room. The DI would check up on the detective, who he'd almost come to see as a son. Except for the time with the chair, there were no drugs or anything of the sort, but there were also no experiments, no cases.

Today though, the DI hoped everything would be different, that Sherlock would take the case that had all of New Scotland Yard stumped. He stormed up the stairs and burst through the door, only to stop short.

He was silent for a minute, frozen and staring in shock, his jaw on the floor practically. Finally he spoke, well, shouted actually.

"JOHN!"

The noise made Sherlock jump. He looked confusedly at his friend, father-figure really, then back at the ghost who'd been haunting him for a year now. That same ghost who was smiling, chuckling. Then the detective said the words that made him stop laughing.

"Wait, you can see him too?"


	3. Chapter 3

**Some of you might recognize the first two scenes. Since I have absolutely no idea who originally drew or wrote or whatever they did, I've changed them a bit. Okay, more than a bit. Yes, a lot. Mostly the changes go with the plot. Possible happy ending, not sure yet.**

Sherlock was still in shock. It was four hours after discovering ghost-John was real-John. Real-John was alive. He'd stayed seated in his chair the whole time, simply staring into space, trying to find a solution that worked.

He'd felt for John's pulse. There hadn't been one. He'd seen the blood, more than any human could possibly lose and live. He'd touched the skin, felt the feeling of death on it. He'd smelled death on the air, the unmistakable stench.

So how?

How was this possible that real-John, the John supposed to have been buried two years ago, was standing in front of him, that worried frown creasing his beautiful face, holding a plate full of food?

He didn't realize he'd spoken aloud until ghost-John, real-John now, sighed and answered.

"Not today, Sherlock. It's been a long day, and it's an even longer story. Tomorrow. Tomorrow I promis I'll explain. For now, eat this and let's get to bed."

Sherlock had started to rise, but froze at the last part.

"Bed?"

John ran his hand through his hair, frustrated. "Yes, Sherlock, bed. You sleep in it, remember?"

Sherlock whispered something, and John furrowed his brow, stepping closer to hear better. "What was that?"

"You do too. You sleep in it too. With me."

"Well yes."

"Why?"

"Because you were having nightmares and needed somebody close by. Because I was having them too. Because," John paused, then his determination firmed and he continued, "because I enjoyed holding you close. But I also need you close, like you needed me."

That was all Sherlock needed to hear. He dissolved. Every tear he'd held back, every sob, every moan, every scream, it was all let go. He fell onto his knees, hugging John's thighs, trying to smother his cries in the warm flesh and denim. When he felt a calloused hand stroke through his curls, he cried harder. Finally the doctor simply dropped to his knees so he was face to face with the genius.

"Sherlock."

That one word pulled the detective up short. He tried to stifle the loud sounds issuing from his mouth and wiped away the tears.

"Sherlock, I'm here now, correct?"

The genius nodded, tiny whimpering noises still making their appearance.

"I am well, am I not?"

Again, Sherlock nodded, not trusting his own voice.

"I'm with you, here, healthy, and I will always be with you. Understand? I'll never leave you again. If I do, I will tell you, I swear."

The detective's eyes widened with hope, then darkened again, deep sadness echoing.

"No you won't. You'll leave just like everyone else. Because nobody can handle it. Nobody can stand me that long. I take over people's lives, and they don't like that."

John pulled Sherlock into a tight hug.

"Someday, my dearest, darlingest detective, I'll tell you a story. But for now, I want to sleep. With you. Just sleep. In a bed. So come."

He stood, offering a hand to the dark-haired man kneeling on the floor. Sherlock hesitated, then took it, not letting go even after they got to his room and fell asleep.

It was the morning that ruined it.


	4. Chapter 4

**You might have noticed I've given up asking for reviews with every chapter. While I like them and other people's views and ideas give me inspiration, you as a reader are your own person. It's your choice. At this point I don't really care. This is the third story I've written in 2 weeks. I'm tired. So read and review, or don't.**

The morning after.

What a horrible phrase, Sherlock thought. It was actually a rather normal phrase, but had taken on a bad flavour after a while. It was now used as a euphemism for regret. Regret for what you did in the night, in the darkness when everything was covered up.

And it was the phrase running through Sherlock's head right now.

Yes, he regretted plenty about last night.

Like breaking down like a child.

Like not asking why John had only showed himself now.

Like not forcing his best friend to tell him WHY.

Like not kissing him.

The detective frowned. Not kissing him? Why would he think that? He went through possible reasons, finally hitting on the one that rang true.

He loved John.

Yes, John was attractive. But it just wasn't that alone. No, it was the fact that John had put himself so many times at risk for Sherlock. And he cared. Nobody had ever cared about Sherlock before the doctor came into his life. At least not enough to make sure he ate and slept, even when his transport didn't need it.

But back to the problem at hand.

Sherlock had woken up alone. He clearly remembered going to bed with John last night. He clearly remembered John's promise to never leave him again. So why had he left without telling Sherlock?

Sherlock had always known John Watson was a man of his word, which explained why this betrayal cut so deeply. That mixed with his newfound feelings for his once-dead-but-actually-very-much-alive friend made the hurt so much worse.

Rolling over on the bed, the detective curled up, wrapping his body around one of the many fluffy pillows. They were his thing, pillows. So soft and cuddly, so squishy, so… nonhuman.

Pillows didn't judge you.

Pillows would wipe away your tears or muffle your laughter.

Pillows could kill, but only if you wished it.

Pillows would let you hide in them.

The genius felt something wet track down his face. He groaned. Not again. He couldn't cry again, so soon after the last time. He'd become dehydrated. If he was dehydrated, John would notice and scold him.

No, time to play the annoying, brilliant, and uncaring detective once more.

He picked up his phone and called Lestrade.

 **Okay yeah this one sucked. I tried to write without any ideas. And it really didn't work out. Sorry for those of you who were waiting for this. To be fair, it is the last week of school, so, finals.**

 **Maybe I can write a few more chapters soon.**

 **Anyway, loves to all of you!**


	5. Chapter 5

John cursed, resting his arms for a bit. He'd been struggling against the ropes that held him for what felt like hours. His military training had paid off a bit, allowing him to loosen the bonds slightly, but he couldn't get the knots fully dissembled. Sherlock had probably woken up alone, scared and worried and angry. Just the thought sent John back into fighting with his restraints. _I have to get back to him, I have to tell him how I feel, what I want between us. I have to…_

*221B*

Sherlock walked out of the bedroom and relaxed slightly, seeing a note attached to the front door. He mentally slapped himself. Of course John wouldn't have left without letting him know. He probably didn't want to wake him up, so he slipped out and wrote this.

Then the detective frowned as a thought came to him. Why wouldn't the doctor put it on the bed?

Shrugging, Sherlock dismissed it. Who knows why people do things. Striding to the door, he pulled the small paper off it, only to discover it wasn't in John's handwriting. It looked like it, yes, but it wasn't quite the same slant. That and his name wasn't written in cursive, the way John had always done it.

The note itself read:

 _Sherlock,_

 _Don't worry, I've just popped round for a chat with a couple of friends. Don't know when I'll be back, but I'll probably stay at one of theirs tonight._

 _John_

When Sherlock flipped it over though, what he found scared him even more. He dropped the small slip of paper and ran to find his phone. As he called Lestrade once more, he kept his eyes on the note, which had landed backside up.

"No, Lestrade, I know you don't have any cases for me. I have one for you. Get here quickly. NOW, Greg!"

There were five words scrawled on the back in John's familiar handwriting. And it was actually John's.

 _Vatican Cameos_

 _I love you_

*warehouse somewhere in London*

John woke suddenly. _I must have blacked out or something._

"No, Dr. Watson, you didn't black out. Or rather, you did but not on your own."

John didn't dare to turn his head. He knew who was behind him. The voice was so familiar. Only one person used that tone of voice with him. _Sebastian Moran. Should've known. This had him written all over it._

"It really was too easy John. You should've known that I would avenge Moriarty's death. You did know, and yet you chose to take out the weaklings, those with little or no power. And then, yes, you did come after me, only to be called off to go comfort your little genius friend." The way Moran said genius indicated he didn't believe Sherlock really was one.

"Well, I decided you are no longer important." John responded with a detached voice, knowing it would get to the dishonorably discharged colonel. "I mean, honestly, yu seriously thought that you were the second-in-charge with Moriarty, that he trusted you, that he," John paused for a second, considering his next words. He mentally shrugged and threw them out there anyways. "That he loved you. I  
mean, come on, who could love a man like you."

Like he thought, that really raised Moran's hackles.

"A man like me?! What about a man like you? Who could love an ordinary, _normal,_ idiotic man like you?"

John clenched his fists, then consciously relaxed his hands. _Don't let him get to you,_ he reminded himself. _If he gets to you, he'll have won._

Unfortunately, Moran had already seen the gesture. He sneered.

"Not as invincible as you thought, eh Johnny boy? Plenty of cracks in your walls still."

John didn't care what Moran said. He needed to keep complete control over his body.

The invisible earpiece in John's ear suddenly came to life. A whisper reached him, "Two hours," before it shut off again.

 _Two hours,_ John thought. _Two hours before I can see Sherlock again, before I can explain the note, before he could understand. Two hours._

Smiling, John knew the best way to spend the next two hours. Relaxing completely but retaining control of everything in his body, John used a trick he hadn't used in ages, since he was in the military trying to sleep on sand under the open sky.

He completely emptied his mind and filled it with one word. _Sleep._

Moran gasped, then growled. His damn captive had fallen asleep. He knew how too. It was a trick every soldier knew, the clearing of the mind before battle, letting instinct take over. Only a few had figured out how to use the exercise to fall asleep on command. They wouldn't wake to anything until their mental alarm rang.

Fuck.


	6. Chapter 6

Sherlock raced through the streets of London. He listened to the phone he held, Mycroft on the other end, giving him directions.

Fuck, it had galled asking his older brother for directions. Everyone knew there was no love lost there. But Mycroft had the resources he needed.

Of course, it helped that Mycroft and Lestrade were together, and Gregory Lestrade was John's friend.

Mycroft had told the detective that John was okay, that he knew what he was doing, that he was still there for a reason. What that reason was Mycroft hadn't and wouldn't say. Sherlock was coming up with all sorts of reasons, but as most of them involved John's death, he tried to avoid that part of his brain.

"Stop."

The command rang out through the cell phone in the genius's hand. He froze.

"You're there. Hurry." That was apparently all as the phone was blinking at him. _Call ended._

Sherlock looked around. Not the café on his right, they wouldn't be able to torture or hold a prisoner there for long with even a few people around. Most likely John wasn't in the bottling factory on his left either. Once again, there would be too many witnesses. Ah, there. The empty warehouse straight ahead. Perfect for any criminal activity.

Sherlock hesitated for a moment, feeling for John's Browning he had borrowed.

His courage failed for a second, but his determination firmed up and took over.

 _I'm doing this for John,_ he reminded himself, eyes closed in concentration. _John is mine, no one else can have him. No one. NO ONE CAN HAVE MY JOHN!_

His eyes flew open and every single person around shrank back instinctively. They were a burning blue-silver, electric and wild. He stalked into the warehouse, intent on his prey.

 **Okay, it's a bit not good, yes, but it's a chapter! Right? Is it? *mumbles random arguments about that under breath* Not really sure about that, but you guys understand… Right? Am I right? *slams face into desk* Whatever, hope you like it.**


	7. Chapter 7

John woke. He didn't open his eyes or gasp or smile or do any of those silly things many people do when they woke up. The only way you could tell he was awake was by his muscles. They were completely relaxed, as opposed to slightly tense during sleep.

After running over that, John concentrated. What had woken him up? The fuzziness of his brain as it tried to kick-start told him that he hadn't slept the full two hours. He heard several loud noises down the corridor from his room. Was that… Yes, it was gunfire. That explained it.

A voice cut through the turmoil, carrying quite well.

"You touched my Jawn. Don't touch my Jawn. He's my hedgehog. You leave my hedgehog alone."

John smiled, his eyes still closed. It was Sherlock. Who else would call him a hedgehog? Only those who'd been on the web and seen the damn pictures people kept posting. And he was pretty sure Moran's men weren't doing that, though you never know.

Suddenly Moran burst through the room. John dropped the smile and tensed his muscles slightly, mimicking his sleeping posture.

A hand wrapped around his throat. Another slapped him hard. _Don't react, complete calm, complete control._

"Johnny boy, it's time to wake up," Moran shouted furiously, shaking the limp man, though he knew it wouldn't do any good. In fact it did a lot more harm. John's muscles reacted before he could stop them, jerking hard against the ropes in an attempt to swing out and take down the threat. Since the restraints were still tight, one of his shoulders nearly popped out of the joint.

"Fuck," Moran growled. He had not planned for this. "Fuck the doctor," he finally said. "I'll just leave."

He ran to the door and escaped, slamming it in the process.

John opened his eyes and screamed in pain.

And then the door burst in.

 **Um… Sorry these chapters are so short. They just come and go.**


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